


the swiftness of time

by tartymoriarty



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: 1986 Magic tour, Introspection, Lovers to Friends, M/M, Maycury Week 2020 (Queen), Nostalgia, Post-Break Up, Post-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:33:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26287273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tartymoriarty/pseuds/tartymoriarty
Summary: Whatever stages it is possible to have in a relationship with another human being, he and Brian have been there, done that, got the t-shirt; friends, lovers, enemies. They have hurled poison and soothed the wounds afterwards, had each other’s backs and stabbed each other’s backs.Friends, lovers, enemies, brothers.That’s where they’ve settled, now. That’s where they’ll stay.
Relationships: Brian May/Freddie Mercury, Jim Hutton/Freddie Mercury
Comments: 17
Kudos: 40
Collections: Maycury_Week_2020





	the swiftness of time

**Author's Note:**

> It's 1986. Whilst getting ready for a show, Freddie finds himself thinking about the past.
> 
> Maycury Week prompt: "Why are you looking at me like that?"

It’s laughable, now, looking back at how long it used to take them to get ready in the early days.

Freddie does laugh about it, most of the time, at least when fans do it – when they shove glossy photographs of himself dressed up to the nines under his nose, so he’s forced to look down at his younger self bedecked in the tightest, shiniest outfit he could lay his manicured hands on. He scoffs at himself now but the fans seem to love it and he understands, really. That’s the Freddie they discovered, the one who sang Bohemian Rhapsody to them and opened their eyes to the sky. That he no longer feels like that same Freddie is irrelevant; he’s not embarrassed by his old leotards or his ballet pumps, just amused and quietly fond, like he’s looking at photographs of a younger brother he rarely sees these days.

“What a complete tart,” he’ll say, and the fans will laugh too, huge-eyed and flushed with excitement.

He knows that feeling, remembers it well; it carried far further into his life as a professional musician than he would lead most people to believe.

When the journalists present him with images of himself it’s different, most of the time; more pointed, like they want to dig their fingers greedily into the gaps between him and that old Freddie and unearth whatever dirty secrets they can find. Why is he so different now? Does he miss the long hair? Will he ever shave the moustache off?

He doesn’t really care. Over the years he’s developed a skin thick enough to withstand 99% of anything the press throw at him, and he’ll never admit to the other 1% anyway.

Freddie looks up at the mirror and studies his reflection appraisingly. There’s not much else to be done; he’s lined his eyes for a dramatic flare and powdered his face to at least try to combat the incessant glare of the spotlights, but that’s about as much as he does now. He turns his face this way and that, casting an appraising eye over his profile. Once upon a year he’d have been fussing over the volume of his hair and the angle of his winged eyeliner. He smiles at the thought.

“Something funny?”

Freddie starts. Brian is leaning against the wall in the doorway.

“I didn’t realise you were there,” he says.

“Just arrived.” Brian stoops momentarily to pick up his bag and comes inside the dressing room properly, nudging the door shut behind him. He sits down on the sofa along the back wall and sets his bag down with a thump. Freddie knows better than to ask what’s in there; Brian always brings a weird and wonderful collection of items on tour with them to fend off boredom in the in-between moments. Books are the usual culprit. Freddie watches without surprise as Brian fishes a large, hardback book out of his back and gets himself comfortable.

“I was just thinking about how long it used to take us to get ready,” Freddie says, “you never used to have time for reading then, do you remember?”

“I never took long to get ready,” Brian protests. “I was always ready first.”

“Yeah, and you were also the reason we generally had so little time to get ready in the first place,” Freddie retorts, which Brian can’t argue with, although he does open his mouth as though he would like to try. They still take a long time making sure everything is ready and working for the show, because they’re professionals and perfectionists, but they’re a well-oiled machine now. It’s nothing compared to the endless hours they used to spend agonising (and arguing) over every tiny detail.

Brian swallows his argument. “Well, someone needed to make sure we were on track.”

“On track,” Freddie repeats. He catches Brian’s eye in the mirror; he’s trying not to smile. “At least you know you’re ridiculous, I suppose.”

A soft laugh. They fall into companionable silence before long, the rustle of Brian’s pages and his quiet breathing a soothing backdrop. Freddie isn’t really doing anything, but that’s fine. It’s nice. He loves singing, hearing the audience sing back, underlining their music with the performance it deserves. It can sometimes feel like he’s given too much of himself, though, like he’s wrung out everything he could and not left much behind for himself.

He doesn’t notice immediately when Brian sets his book aside but eventually he registers that the noise of turning pages has stopped. Freddie looks up. Brian is watching his reflection in the mirror. There’s a look on his face that Freddie can’t place: almost sad, but not quite. It’s familiar somehow, which shouldn’t be a surprise, because there’s probably not a person in the world he’s more familiar with than Brian. The expression reminds him of something he can’t quite remember, and it unsettles him.

He half-turns in his chair, self-conscious.

“Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Just looking,” Brian says, which is somehow both oddly revealing and no answer at all.

Freddie turns properly to face him and raises an eyebrow. Face-to-face, Brian’s expression slides into a small smile and he looks away.

It’s the turn of his head that clues Freddie in. He remembers Brian looking away from him like that before with that same expression, the same almost sad eyes, when they finally talked about what was happening between them. Their relationship had run its course over the years and they both knew it, felt it in the air between them. It was almost sad because they both knew that it was for the best, that letting go of what they had been would save what they could be.

Freddie had been the one to instigate the conversation and he’d dreaded it, utterly and completely. Whatever stages it is possible to have in a relationship with another human being, he and Brian have been there, done that, got the t-shirt; friends, lovers, enemies. They have hurled poison and soothed the wounds afterwards, had each other’s backs and stabbed each other’s backs.

Friends, lovers, enemies, brothers.

That’s where they’ve settled, now. That’s where they’ll stay.

The conversation had been a relief, in the end. They let each other go as much as they needed to. Freddie hadn’t been sure he would be able to do it and he had fretted until the next time he saw Brian, just over a week later. He could have saved himself the worry; Brian’s eyes had been soft when their gazes had met. The tension was gone. He hadn’t realised what a burden that tension had been until it left.

He doesn’t ask Brian why he’s looking at him like that again. He probably does the same himself, he thinks; Brian will do or say something that sends him reeling back fifteen years, like it’s 1971 again and his young heart is utterly full of Brian May, enraptured by the way he spoke, moved, the way his hands moved over his guitar strings.

“Do you remember our first show?” Freddie asks suddenly.

In the reflection, Brian glances up at him. He looks thoughtful.

“As Queen?” he asks.

Freddie shakes his head. “No. The one Roger’s mum booked for us in Cornwall, with Mike.”

Brian’s mouth twitches. “How could I forget?”

“I think I’d quite like to forget,” Freddie mutters.

“You don’t mean that,” Brian says.

He’s right, naturally. Freddie pulls a face at him in the mirror and he laughs.

“I thought you were magnificent,” Brian says, turning his attention back to his book. He says it so simply, so matter of fact, and something about it makes Freddie’s chest feel tight all of a sudden.

“I wasn’t,” he says. Brian just shakes his head like his disagreement is all it takes to dispel Freddie’s derogatory words.

“What’s got you thinking about it?”

 _You_ , Freddie should say, _us._ Instead, he says, “Just feels like a very long time ago.”

“It does,” Brian concedes. He glances around the dressing room, far bigger than the cramped, draughty little rooms they used to squeeze into together. “Who would have thought, hm?”

“We would have,” Freddie says with certainty and Brian laughs again, because it’s true; there was no-one more intent on Queen’s success than the two of them.

He’s not sure his younger self would have dared to dream about quite so much success, though. A sell out tour for their twelfth album with crowds piling into the biggest venues they can book; he’s heard that they’re expecting close to a million for the final night next week in Knebworth. That would be something, even for them.

The clock ticks on towards tonight’s performance. Freddie hears John passing by in the corridor outside, the familiar low pitch of his voice and Phoebe’s answering murmur. Roger is warming up somewhere, his loud laughter audible even over the clash of his cymbals. Jim manages to find his way backstage and comes in for a pre-show whisky with him and Brian, which is lovely, and it warms Freddie through to see how the two of them interact, devoid of jealousy.

Eventually John and Roger join them and they run through their usual warm up. Jim makes a hasty retreat, casting a nervous eye towards Roger’s brandished drumsticks. Freddie’s voice sounds strong and there’s an audience waiting for them out there in the Barcelona evening heat.

“Let’s go,” says Freddie.

And they go.


End file.
